Lead Us Not Into Temptation
by this is only a test
Summary: "This is your best friend since kindergarten, your partner in crime, your closest buddy, practically your twin brother. Red flags are shooting off all over the place, but you can't help it. You can't help that feeling you get every time you look at him, every time you stare into his eyes and realize that part of him could be yours." One-sided Soda/Steve Slash.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Warning: Slash ahead.

AN: Every now and then slash is a guilty pleasure of mine, but I have a hard time seeing it as anything but one-sided in the 1960's, so my apologies... There will be no smut. Simply angsty lusting over the unattainable...

It's one of those painstakingly slow nights at the DX again, and it seems like fate that you and Steve always end up working together on the deadest of nights. In theory, that should be a godsend, the only thing keeping you sane in your incredulous boredom, but it isn't. In fact, it's terrible and highly unfortunate, and you're half convinced you'll kill yourself if you have to suffer through it a minute longer.

Just you and _him _in a completely dead gas station. No one in plain sight, nor anyone lurking within a hundred foot radius. It's a quarter past midnight, and the likelihood of another customer is slim to none, but that goddamned clock's keeping you here 'til at least two.

You glance up at the wretched thing above the counter and stare blankly at the slowly ticking second hand. _Tick_, _tick_, _tick_—it moves slower than watching paint dry, an activity you'd readily welcome right now. Hell, you'd welcome any sort of distraction—_anything_ to keep your mind off him—since it's another hour and forty-five minutes before you can even dream of punching out. Damn near two more hours, _if_ you're lucky, to spend here _alone _with Steve.

You're begging for someone to shoot you. Just drive a bullet straight through your head and put you out of your pathetic misery, because the pain of the blunt, metal object tearing through flesh and mutilating every last inch of your brain sounds a thousand more times appealing than sitting here right now.

It's not that you don't like him. Glory, it couldn't be more than opposite, and that's the problem. Being in close proximity to him, with literally nothing more with a lone ant crawling on the floor to bear witness, is terrifying. It's like you're back in junior high, trying to hide your feelings for the beautiful girl in the desk in front of you. But it's worse, because this isn't just any other teenage girl you've got the hots for; this is Steve fuckin' Randle.

This is your best friend since kindergarten, your partner in crime, your closest buddy, practically your twin brother. Red flags are shooting off all over the place, but you can't help it. You can't help that feeling you get every time you look at him, every time you stare into his eyes and realize that part of him could be yours.

You're about ready to gag at your current dismal state. You've always been a hopeless romantic, and nothing's proving more deadly now. It sounds horrible wanting a piece of Randle the way you do. You know it's dirty, sick, and depraved—just plain fucking wrong in every possible way—yet nothing sounds more enticing.

Sweat's starting to drip down your brow and onto the glass counter. You quickly wipe it away, before Steve can snag a glance, and heave an inward sigh. Every last millisecond of time is jam packed with a thousand close calls, and as each moment passes, your mind's fathoming of plethora of excuses to cover up your increasingly obvious apprehension. Pounding harder and harder, your racing heart is about to jump out of your chest cavity and throw itself at Steve with all its strength. Figuratively, of course, but at the rate it's going, literally doesn't seem too far off base either. And now, you realize just how insane you are to consider letting him know what your feeling; let alone the corniness of actually throwing yourself at him as if he were your knight in shining armor. But something about Steve is making you go weak in the knees, something you couldn't afford to put words to. The sweat dripping down every last corner of skin and your throbbing heart are more than enough trouble to sort through, not to mention what's happening _under_ the counter. There's no way in hell you'd be able to wiggle your way out of _that _sort of conversation alive and breathing.

Besides, liking him the way you do is an obvious threat to your masculinity. Every ounce of testosterone inside you must be fuming to think that you, Sodapop Curtis, could actually love another man.

You're disgusted with yourself and not just because you have feelings for him. Pretty much every member of the male species is jealous of you and would _kill _to be you. In their eyes, you're the luckiest man alive. You're a charmer, you're the "ladies' choice" and could have any girl you want in a heartbeat, but in reality, you're nothing but a goddamned queer, because the only person you want is him.

His eyes are currently fixated on that small, red ant and you thank whatever high power there is for the few seconds of relief, but before you can hold your breath, his gaze shifts to you. He seems to scrutinize you with those piercing, green eyes. They're like solid blocks of steel driving themselves straight through to the back of your skull.

"Jesus Christ, Soda, you look like you've seen the fuckin' devil." He good-naturedly claps a hand on your shoulder, inadvertently sending an influx of adrenaline right into your bloodstream. Nothing could've been more detrimental than the feeling of his body touching yours.

Someone pull the trigger now and blow your head to pieces before you blow your cover. This feeling you have for him is unnatural. You barely understand it yourself and couldn't even begin to pinpoint the exact moment you went from thinking of him as your friend to thinking of him as a potential romantic interest. He's taken, for chrissakes, _and _100% straight. In other words, permanently off limits, but that isn't clicking in your head. Logic doesn't mean shit to the massive flood of emotions streaming through your body. Every last nerve inside you wants him despite the unbreakable boundaries that exist between you.

"Woah, buddy," he drawls. "You're white as a goddamned sheet." His strong gaze is still penetrating your flesh as he moves his eyes up and down your body, sending shivers down your spine and making you wanna crawl right out of your skin.

Eyes glued to your knuckles, you resist the temptation to look at him. His observation is accurate—your hands are the exact shade of eggshells—and you're certain if you dare lay one eye on him, puke will be everywhere.

It seems like hours pass as you sit there, hoping he'll drop the subject and go back to watching the lonely red ant. But much to your dismay, the dreaded words, "You okay?", are flying out of his mouth. You can't escape answering now no matter how much you'd like to. He's concerned, and the guilt of having him think you're legitimately sick when you're nothing more than madly in love with the guy is eating away at your already guilty conscience. This is wrong—this is so incredibly wrong.

"Yeah," you finally manage to eek out. "I'm fine."

But you're not fine, you're the farthest possible thing from fine, because this is the paradox if you've ever come across one. The only thing you want in this cruel world is right at your fingertips but couldn't be more out of your reach.

ment here...


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own.

Three A.M. and you're sitting outside on the porch, trying to calm down enough to head inside and sleep. You've been here since the moment you got off work. Raced home, barely even bothered to say good-bye to Steve, and planted yourself in this very spot. There's a half-burning cigarette in the ashtray because you couldn't find the patience to smoke the whole thing, let alone slow your breathing long enough to press the tip to your lips and inhale. Still sweating something fierce, you wonder what kind of cruel God would brand you with this curse.

It has to be a curse, because thinking this is truly the way you are is scary. Maybe you did something wrong in your short life to deserve this. You've no clue what, but no loving God would purposely make someone suffer like you do. But deep down, despite any talk of God, you know that nature made you this way. You know because very time you stare into his eyes, wrongs feels so right. But that's not the way it's supposed to go, is it? You know, just as well as every other respectable member society that "one man, one woman" is the _only_ way nature intended it to be. Why then, does "one man, one man" feel so right?

You start with the reasons why it's wrong, and the paradox of the situation is that you can think of more wrongs than rights. The first wrong is that you're going against everything your mother ever wanted for you. You remember your mother pushing Darry to be a tie the knot with that sweet, little brunette, don't you? Like every mother, she wanted nothing more to watch all her children marry. She wanted to be a happy, supportive grandmother more than anything in the world.

Wringing your hands nervously, you try not to completely lose it. Thinking about her was the last thing your uneasy mind needed, because thinking of your late mother brings nothing but a multitude of guilt. Sometimes you try to talk yourself through it, reminding yourself that a mother's love is unconditional and telling yourself she'd love despite the fact you're a freak.

She'd still love you, but that's not to say she'd be 100% okay with your sexuality. You know this because you still remember all those lectures about your grades back in high school—all those lectures about how your future wife would want an educated man as her better half. Education was important to her, but family was even more significant. She placed a heavy precedent on family while you were growing up—emphasized the importance of having one and providing for one—but what place is there in "one man, one man" for a family?

You wish there was. Sometimes you dream, and sometimes you fathom you and Steve could manage to raise a family. If you loved each other and put the children above anything, it wouldn't be so bad. That's all a family really needs to make it, right? Love. In those dreams, you're pretty sure you can Steve could have a lot of it.

But then reality hits you like a steel bullet. There's no way in hell you could father children with another man. Even if it was biologically possible, society's another issue.

Another reason why your love for Steve is wrong. Society has no place for queers, and if it does, it's the lowest wrung. People would sneer at you and cringe just to see you holding hands with another man. You'd live a life of misery and secrecy, only able to make your love known to each other.

Social norms reign among the masses, and nothing would be more detrimental to your "tuff" reputation.

You'd be lying to yourself if you told yourself you didn't care, though. Truth is you probably care about what others think about you more than any other person on the planet. Having your secret outed is your worst nightmare, and it just might become a reality if you don't learn to control your urges. Hell, even Two-Bit jokes around about you having the hots for Steve. You laugh and play along, asking him if he's jealous for good measure. But if you had to be honest, every time the joke blows over, you heave a heavy sigh of relief.

To sound like a dramatic teenager, having the world know you're queer would ruin your life, and only an insane person could want something that'd ruin his life more than anything in the world. In fact, by modern medical standards, you _are_ clinically insane. That's right; your love for Steve is nothing more than a psychological disorder. Maybe they should lock you away or ram some medication down your throat. Anything to put you out of this misery.

"Sodapop!" Darry's voice snaps you out of your thoughts. "What in God's name are ya doin' out here at this hour?"

"I dunno." You shrug, hoping he'll let it go and leave you be.

"Glory, you look like shit," he says, taking a seat next to you. "You feelin' okay?"

"Yeah, fine." You bit down on your lip, trying to keep it from shaking.

He gives you a look, like he knows you're hiding something from him. Sometimes you wish you could tell him. After all, this isn't the first time he's given you that look. But telling Darry you're queer would be worse than telling your late mother. There's no way it'd make sense in his logical mind, and you'd be placing undue burden on his already strained thoughts. He doesn't need to deal with his little brother being a freak no more than you hate being one.

This is something you'll always have to keep to yourself, because there's no cure. Lord knows you've tried and failed in that department. Once upon a time, you decided to get yourself a girlfriend. It's not like it was difficult. Being Sodapop Curtis, you had your fair share of choices, and boy, did you land yourself a good one. Sandy Haroldson. She sure was the pick of the crop, and you pretended to love her so much, you actually fell for her.

But that's another story.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Still don't own anything.

AN: This is the last chapter, but there will be an epilogue.

You wake up in a pool of sweat. Pony's staring at you wide-eyed and worried, and the realization that for the first time in years you're the one who's had a nightmare hits you. What the dream was you've no clue. All you know is that the back of your throat feels caught in the tail end of a scream and the kid looks more frightened than he does in the middle of his own nightmares.

For a split second you try to say something—anything—to let him know you're alright. It'd be a lie, but who cares; he shouldn't have to see you like, in this panicked, freaked out state. _You're_ the one who's supposed to have it together.

But laying on the bed now, head anchored to the pillow and body pressed firmly against the sheets, you're on the brink of insanity. Grasping fistfuls of the blanket, you try your hardest not to scream again. The urge is strong, and while your head realizes you're back in reality, your body apparently doesn't. But as much as you'd love to release all that tension in one intense screech, Ponyboy is still standing there, scared out of his fucking mind because you can't seem to pull it together.

Darry's there, too, now. You can't see him, but you figure it must be him who's shaking you.

"Soda!" he yells, his fingers sinking deeper into your shoulders.

"Christ Almighty, Sodapop!" he curses, shaking you harder.

Everything's starting to fade to black, and your stomach feels like it's dropping out of your body. Slipping further and further into oblivion, your chest tightens, and suddenly you realize you've forgotten to breathe. In one long gasp, you open your mouth and choke as the stale air finally reaches your lungs.

Sight slowly reappears in blotchy, hazy circles, and squinting, you can see Darry and Pony clearer with every blink. Tears are streaming down Pony's cheeks, and even Darry looks a little shook up. You blink faster, trying to erase the image from your mind. You haven't seen them this freaked out in a long time, and the pain of the image is too much.

In a matter of seconds, all the tension and bottled up emotion escapes. For this you feel guilty, and even though you hate to cry, you now find yourself unable to stop.

You hate to admit it, but this whole thing with Steve is getting to you. If there was a way to turn back time, everything would be so much easier. A few months ago, this love for him was nothing more than a quiet admiration. Now, it's full blown infatuation, and it's affecting your ability to be within the same ten feet of him. Not to mention he's taking up every vacant thought in your racing mind, and the worst part about it is none of it makes sense.

Steve is just like a jealous little girl crush when you stop to think about it. All the junior high girls gush over The Beatles and boys they'll never be able to have, too, and just like them, you'll grow out of it someday. When you meet that perfect girl, all the feelings you have for him will magically disappear. That's what happened with Sandy, right?

Unfortunately, you've convinced yourself Sandy was the only girl you ever could love. When she left, you swore off women, and look where's it's gotten you now.

At the moment, you can't even calm yourself down. Normally you're able to shove every feeling aside and pretend everything's fine the second something engages your feelings. Keeping it together and putting on that warm and supportive front has never been a problem in the past, but currently that inner rage and built up frustration that half of the time you have to force yourself not to be a big baby is spewing out right before your eyes. Despite what you always tell others and how much you'd kill to say the words now, you are definitely not okay.

You're breaking down into the big bawl baby you really are, and while you've always been a basketcase deep down, there's no hiding that inner insanity right now . There's no hiding it this time—no shoving it aside in hopes everyone will believe your life is just fine when you paint that happy-go-lucky smile across your lips.

You might as well just tell your brothers you're a queer. The lack of masculinity is written over every inch of your body—in the why you're shaking and breathing heavily, and especially in the way you're still bawling your eyes out.

You swallow hard and try so hard to stop the tears from coming. Forcing yourself to think about other things is helping, and at the front of your mind is that sign you saw the other day. That one the army recruiters put outside the DX. You and Steve laughed it off when they first posted it. No way in hell either of you'd ever wanna join the military, but as sure as you were you'd never consider it, it seems like the greatest option in the world right now.

Maybe it's just your fucked up mental state that's telling you that's the ticket to sanity, or maybe it's karma finally reaching out. Either way, the thought is enough to bring comfort.

Enlisting seems like a gem in a pile of dirt. For one, you're disgusted with how girly you've been acting lately and nothing toughens a man up like joining the army, right? Not to mention you'll be away from Steve, too. Maybe a long time away from him will help you purge out all those horrible feelings you have for him. Anything to get rid of them is worth a shot at this point.

The only negative of joining is dying at war, but as far as you're concerned, you're killing yourself in this funk anyways, so there's nothing to lose.

You'll enlist first thing tomorrow.


End file.
